“Don’t you think, Doctor,” she overheard, “that he would be far better off in a sanitarium?”

She shuddered as the doctor agreed with Balcom, and Balcom sought to persuade her that the course was best.  Even the solicitations of Paul annoyed her.  Paul was more than vexed at this new repulse from his bride-to-be.  His anger knew no bounds as he caught sight of Locke, who had overheard and showed his doubt over the whole proposal for the care of Brent.  He plucked at his father’s sleeve and nodded toward Locke.

Balcom needed no prompting from his crafty son.

“I’ll have you understand, Locke,” he cried, his face growing apoplectic red, “that I am in charge here now.  Your services are no longer required.”

“I quite understand,” returned Locke, quietly.  “We shall see.”

Balcom stormed down from the room to the telephone, where, a moment later, he telephoned to an asylum, asking them to send a conveyance with nurses, keepers, and whatever paraphernalia was necessary to take care of his partner, Brent.

“Is he violent?” demanded the doctor over the telephone.

“Yes.  Bring a strait-jacket,” snapped back Balcom.  “And the sooner he is under your care the better.”

With that Balcom stamped out of the house.

In Brent’s room, Paul was attempting still to ingratiate himself with Eva, who was growing more distant toward him with every moment.  Finally Paul could stand it no longer.  He turned on his heel and faced Locke angrily in the hall.

“You’ll regret this, confound you!” he ground out, as he swung out of the room rapidly in a high state of feeling.

Unconcernedly Locke turned on his heel.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered to Eva.  “I’ll see that no harm comes to your father.”

For answer, her own heart too full for words, Eva pressed the hand of the young scientist.  It was reward enough for Locke.

Meanwhile, at Doctor Shaw’s sanitarium, to which Balcom had telephoned with the permission of the doctor, elaborate preparations had been completed for the reception and transportation of Brent.

It was perhaps an hour later that the ambulance, with three white-uniformed attendants, pulled out, carrying all those appurtenances necessary for the care of the insane, including the strait-jacket which Balcom had so testily suggested.

That same hour had seen intense activity in another quarter.  In the den of the Automaton, the hard-visaged emissaries had been already roused by the entrance of the Automaton.

Hasty directions had been uttered by the metallic, phonograph voice of the monster, and already four of the most desperate of the characters had hurried through the entrance out on the cliffs.  The Automaton himself had turned toward the passage through the Graveyard of Genius to Brent Rock itself.

Thus it happened that when the ambulance from Doctor Shaw’s sanitarium came bowling along the road to Brent Rock as fast as its motor would permit, the driver was forced suddenly to put on the brakes to save himself from being wrecked by a huge log that lay squarely across the road.